


the names of things

by LaughingSenselessly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Magic, Marriage of Convenience, Stydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5255369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughingSenselessly/pseuds/LaughingSenselessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Smile,” the servant advises, “you look like you’re marching to your execution.”</p><p>“Isn’t that what this is?” Stiles mutters.</p><p>-x-</p><p>The Prince of the Stilinski kingdom's name is cursed-- all who know it shall die. But, there may be a way to break the curse; only, it involves the Ice Queen, the cold-hearted, beautiful, intimidating and dangerous monarch of the Martin kingdom...</p>
            </blockquote>





	the names of things

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends. this started out as a drabble prompt from someone on ff.net and mutated into this thing. An INCREDIBLY huge thank you to Stivvy (@thebeethatcouldhavebeen on tumblr) for beta-reading. The amount of typos she found was absolutely hilarious in a sad way (tfw when you realize maybe you aren't as good at self editing as u thought). She was absolutely phenomenal!! ily babe <3
> 
> I hope you guys like it! I've been working on it for the better part of two months. (also, a disclaimer: atrocious world building ahead)

He’s never been quite accustomed to the cold.

He comes from warmer, more welcoming lands, where the sun smiles down daily and mittens and scarves are merely a concept. He’s missing his home right now, as he stands in front of a castle door five times as tall as he and twenty times as wide. He’s shivering, his boots and socks soaked through, and he’s certain icicles will start forming off the tip of his nose at any given moment.

He can barely lift his hand to knock, but his hand pauses on its way up. He closes his eyes, gathers his resolve. He needs this. He has come all the way up for a reason: the answer, the cure to the spell the magician Jennifer bestowed upon him at birth, lies behind this door.

_“All who know your name are cursed.”_

_A dark bit of magic bestowed upon him as a baby in hissed, crackling words while his mother clutched him, sobbing._

_His mother died the next day during after birth complications._

_His father, five years later while gasping and clutching his chest._

_His childhood friend, Heather, took longer. It was seven years before she was found at the bottom of a creek, neck at an odd angle as her body lay sprawled by a cedar tree._

_He didn’t tell anyone his name after that; but one person_ _that_ _he had quietly said his name to was still alive._

_“What’s your name?” the royal prince of the McCall kingdom had asked curiously in the sandbox one day when they were five._

_And he told him happily, because he was young and stupid._

_After his father, he began going by a false name. “Stiles,” he told Scott firmly. “Call me Stiles.” The less his friends said his true name the longer, he hoped, he could delay the curse._

_Scott nodded understandingly. “Like the name of your kingdom.”_

_“Right,” the heir to the Stilinski kingdom had replied softly. Scott opened his mouth hesitantly, about to ask something else, but the conversation was cut short when the princess Allison burst through the bushes, startling them both into giggles._

_They never spoke of it again._

Sixteen years later, Scott is dying.

Well, he’s been dying for a while now- his sickness has persisted for over a year, wearing him down  until he was bedridden. At first, they all thought it was common sickness, but when no healer was able to cure him, it became apparent what the real culprit was. Frankly, Stiles remembers being surprised Scott had lasted this long. He’s dreaded this for his entire life.

Stiles is desperate. He can’t lose another. And he knows there aren’t a plethora of ways to break a curse.

One way is to have a magician break it for you.

And he’s heard things- heard things about how a true love can break any curse. Stiles doesn’t believe that to be anything more than an old wives’ tale; he does that for his sanity. A true love for him isn’t possible. Not anymore.

So he knocks.

The sound seems to resound across the howling, wintry landscape somehow, or maybe that’s just in his head. And he waits with bated breath before finally the doors swing open to the inside, revealing a great, cobblestoned hall, lit only by torches held on the wall. No one is here to greet him.

After a brief pause, he takes a small step inside. His boot squishes against his foot. It’s the only sound he can hear apart from his own shallow breathing. “Hello?” he calls tentatively. His voice echoes on for several seconds, but then he hears the sound of it fall short and his heart leaps. There is another door at the end of this long, winding hallway.

He walks in now without ceremony, shedding his soggy gloves and woollen hat and stuffing them into his pockets as he goes. He even debates bidding goodbye to his disgustingly soaked boots, but reluctantly decides that walking in with bare feet is hardly the way to make an entrance. He rounds the corner of the hall and in front of him is another door, gleaming mahogany wood set into the wall. He swallows; rakes his hand through his damp hair, and takes a deep breath.

Finally a musical voice speaks, making him jump, for it seems disembodied. “Enter.”

He pushes the door open immediately.

It’s a large, expansive throne room; his eyes are immediately bombarded with gleaming furniture adorned with jewels and golden plating and crests. The floor is marble. The ceiling is high. At the head of it all is the throne itself, one Queen with flaming hair and scrutinizing wintery green eyes sits upon it, wearing her royal finery and her pet….a great snake that winds around her shoulders with slow ease. He watches the snake wearily for a moment- he’d heard of her pet in legends, but hadn’t thought it was true.

He approaches and her eyes flash; he’s reminded of courtesy. He knows better than to not bow before a Queen, and kneels immediately. This is not just any queen; this is the Ice Queen, or so she’s called. He’s heard the tales. Legend has it she is a powerful witch who killed her previous husband out of spite and took his throne. Although from what Stiles has seen in his travels, what there is of the Martin Nation to rule is unclear. Her voice is confidently regal when she speaks.

“Rise.”

He does immediately, eyes beseeching. She’s beautiful, with red, pouting lips and a figure draped in violet that he might spend a little time admiring if he weren’t so genuinely terrified.

He immediately begins to fidget with his hands as she examines him. She isn’t subtle at all; she leans back on her throne, appraising him from head to toe, lingering in places that make his face flush slightly. He stands there in front of her, half-wishing he’d made some effort to smooth his hair down before he walked in, or to bring something to wear more impressive than the grubby winter coat and pants he’d picked up in a village before starting his trek up the mountain (Although, he’s quite glad he didn’t ditch the boots).

Finally she looks back into his eyes, making his heart rate spike when the green of them connects with his, and speaks. “The Prince With No Name.” Her voice is curious, wondering, without the usual trepidation that is accompanied with the moniker.

He hates that moniker. Unfortunately, it is the one that has stuck. It is uttered with fear by common people when he ventures into the public, tentatively by royal visitors, as if Stiles will lean forward and tell them his name out of spite if the trade deal goes wrong. Not that he’s involved in the trade deals. He never became King and he never will be, because of the curse that makes him untouchable. The throne went to his distantly related cousin when Stiles’ father died, but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t think about telling King Derek his name every once in awhile.

Stiles will forever be just a _prince_ with no name, if barely that only by lineage.

In any case, he merely nods.

She says flatly, “What do you want?”

This is what he’s been waiting for; he seizes the opportunity and begins to speak, very fast. “Y- your highness,” he says, twisting his fingers anxiously, “I came to ask for your help in breaking my curse. They say that you’ve developed magical abilities and-”

“You’ve lived under that curse since birth. Why try to break it _now_?” she interrupts, sounding almost bored as she runs one hand absentmindedly down her snake’s head.

He’s left gaping for a minute before he recovers. “King Scott of the McCall kingdom knows my name,” he replies, and his voice is sounding weak even to him. “He’s getting sicker by the day. He… he’s going to die if I can’t lift this curse. Can you help me?” he can’t help the pleading note to his voice.

She considers him for a moment. “You must be truly desperate, to seek my help.”

Well, she’s right about that, Stiles thinks wryly.

He clasps his hands together, looking at her beseechingly. “Please, I’m begging you- I’ll do anything, okay-”

“Anything?” she echoes, with a raised eyebrow.

“ _Anything_ ,” Stiles confirms resolutely, because if Scott dies, Stiles is not sure he will be able to keep on living anymore either.

“I can’t break the curse.” Her words ring clear, and Stiles deflates immediately.

“Are you sure-”

“Quite,” her voice is frigid as she cuts him off, “I’m not a witch.”

He watches her with some curiosity. “But you’re not human, either.”

“I’m _something_ ,” she snaps at him as she leans forward, and he suddenly gets the impression she doesn’t know, either. She settles back in her seat as if realizing she has outwardly expressed emotion and is disconcerted by it. Stiles attempts to hide a smile despite the severity of the situation. “So I may still be able to help.”

His heart leaps with hope now. She continues.

“Over the years I have developed...a knack for finding… things,” she says slowly. “Supernatural - well, magical things.” When he stares at her in confusion, she rolls her eyes and simplifies. “I can try to find the witch who put the curse on you.”

“Are you psychic?” The curious question flies from his mouth without any forethought, and when she levels him with a glare he quickly clasps his hands together, for now stowing away his question of when exactly she developed this knack of hers. “Ahem. So you can help?”

Her glare is still on full volume when she replies. “It’s not a promise. It’s something I can try. Not for you, but for King Scott.” She sighs, stroking the head of her snake again. “He’s a good king, and unlike the others, he isn’t afraid to trade with me. The McCall Kingdom needs him.”

“They do,” Stiles agrees enthusiastically, heart feeling lighter by the second. Maybe this could work, as wild as a plan as it was. That was, of course, the reason he’d told no one he was going on this trek. They would call it madness. He knew it sort of was.

“But you must give me something in return.”

He blinks and his jaw drops with something like indignation. “Hold on, you literally _just_ said you’re doing it for Scott and not me-”

She interrupts him. “You said _anything_ ,” she says in a kind of bored, sing-song voice.

He doesn’t reply; he did say that, because he is stupid.

She examines her fingernails. “We shall marry.” He blinks several times at those words, trying his best to ignore the shiver they send down his spine.

“What?” he finally manages, inarticulately.

She sighs loudly before delivering a truly baleful look. “If I’m to help you and Scott find the witch who cursed you, you’ll marry me first; in name only, of course.”

He’s truly at a loss. “Why?”

Her full lips flatten into a thin line, and she appraises him. For a moment, he thinks she’s not going to answer- she’s certainly got no reason to- but then she apparently takes pity on him. “As you know, I have built something of a reputation over the years. The kingdoms are afraid of involving themselves with me, and because of that, my own is suffering.”

Stiles catches on. “So you think if you get married again, they’ll start to see you as a family person,” he can’t help the way his lips quirk upward at the thought, “someone friendly.”

She doesn’t seem to like his wording. “Don’t act like this arrangement wouldn’t be mutually beneficial,” she hisses at him, “you have no prospects otherwise. You’ve already lost your kingdom, and your royal name. It’s only a matter of time until you’re cast off into the street .”

He winces because she’s right. The nobles of his kingdom only barely tolerate his presence.

She clasps her hands in her lap; Stiles watches the snake wind itself a little more tightly around her shoulders. “Decide,” she commands, settling back into her throne, “either take my deal, or be cursed forever.”

He fidgets, sighs, abandons all sense of propriety that he’s been trying to keep up since he stepped foot into this chamber. “You weren’t always this cutthroat, Lyds.”

She examines him. “Wrong,” she says, and her voice is a little lighter, a little more fond as she shifts in her seat, relaxing against the backrest and crossing her legs. “I just chose not to cut _your_ throat.”

 

-x-

 

Lydia remembers Stiles, of course- How can she not? She hasn’t seen her childhood friend in five years, but unlike her, he doesn’t seem to have changed at all.

He tried his best to seem formal, perhaps even thinking she wouldn’t recognize him. Perhaps he hears the stories they tell about her and believes them. Good, she thinks, although there’s a part of her that doesn’t like that notion. Because it’s better this way.

He looks as handsome as ever; even more so now. His hair sticks up every which way, calling up fond memories from her childhood, when she’d first met him at the age of seven at some banquet and he was sitting under the stairs of the Argent castle alone, hugging his knees.

_She’d meant to keep going by, but he lifted his head when he saw her and he honestly had looked starstruck._

_She put her hands on her hips, not liking the way he stared at her without blinking._

_“Are you a fairy?” he asked._

_Her stance relaxed in her confusion. “What?” she said disparagingly. “No, I’m not.”_

_“Oh.” His eyes were owlishly wide. “But you’re so pretty.”_

_The compliment, so matter-of-fact, had disarmed her. It was an effect that he would have on her for years  with those big brown eyes, adorable cheekbone-y smiles, and those comments that came out of nowhere, but this first time was shocking to her. She blinked a few times. And harrumphed. And flounced away to find her best friend, not looking behind her and fighting off the blush that wanted to rise to her cheeks._

-x-

_They were ten when he asked her to marry him._

_She saw him again a bit later after their first encounter; she recognized him immediately standing among some of the Stilinski nobles, and he looked as dazzled as before._

_“Who’re you looking at?” Allison whispered into her ear. They were visiting the Stilinski court, but there were many royals in attendance from many different kingdoms at this peace treaty meeting. Lydia shrugged, not taking her eyes off of him. He was a little taller, a little gawkier, a little more uncomfortable looking, as if he’d been physically stuffed into his crisp white shirt and smart trousers._

_“Oh,” Allison said knowingly. Lydia elbowed her, not liking that tone._

_Allison didn’t say anything else for a while, and finally Lydia gave in. “Who is he?” she asked._

_Allison answered readily, albeit a little smugly. “That’s the prince with no name,” she stated._

_Lydia’s eyes widened. She’d heard the tales, but… “What they say about him- is it true?”_

_Allison was silent for a moment before speaking quietly. “I think so,” she seemed to shake herself and elbowed Lydia playfully, “he goes by Stiles. He’s nice- he’s friends with Scott.”_

_It was Lydia’s turn to raise her eyebrows at her best friend. “Scott, hmmm?”_

_As Allison dissolved into giggles, Lydia almost forgot about the amber brown eyes burning into the back of her head for the rest of the summit._

_Of course, after the peace treaty was announced, the courts of Argent, McCall, Stilinski and a few others would have to meet more often, so Lydia got to see more of everyone. They grew into a group of friends._

_Even Stiles._

_So when one day he dropped to one knee and took her gloved hand and said “Will you marry me?” she wasn’t really surprised. She giggled at him because it was absurd and yet it sent a strange swooping sensation fluttering through her chest and-_ why _was she considering the feasibility of such a proposal all of a sudden?_

_But he was still staring, waiting for an answer, so she played along. “And why would I accept?”_

_He held onto her hand as he replied immediately. “I’ll open doors for you,” he began earnestly, “I’ll paint your nails- or I’ll try- and I’ll bring you apple cider with cinnamon and I’ll let you ride my horse and I’ll comb your hair when you’re too tired and I’ll- I’ll,” he stammered, and up til now Lydia watched with amusement. “I’ll buy you the theorem books that you like to look at when we go to the market-”_

_She wrenched her hand out of his, heart thundering. “What?”_

_He floundered, and she could see him retracing his steps, trying to deduce what he’d said that was wrong. That wasn’t the problem- he’d just said something so terribly_ right _that it terrified her. “I- you like those books, don’t you? With the numbers?”_

_“No,” she spat at him, turning on the heel, “I don’t.”_

_“You don’t like them?” he repeated, slowly rising from the ground with a look of absolute befuddlement._

_“I don’t like them,” she confirmed, and before flouncing away she added bitingly, “and I don’t like_ you _, either.”_

_She didn’t look back to see his expression._

-x-

_They were twelve when she acknowledged to herself that she kind of liked him. In what way, she didn’t care to examine. But she knew she did._

_They’d been playing hide and seek; perhaps they were a little old for this game, but Scott and Allison’s childish laughter drew Lydia into it- and once she’d been designated “it”, she made quick work of finding those two._

_They’d all split up to find Stiles but it was Lydia who found him hours later, outside and hidden in the shadows between two trees crouched on the outer edge of the Argent castle property._

_She came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Got you,” she said smugly, but he didn’t respond; his back shuddered, and she felt a wave of- concern?- fall over her._

_She dropped to her knees beside him. “Stiles?”_

_He barely turned his head at her voice, but she saw his face. His features were tight, drawn; and now that she saw she wondered how she hadn’t heard the strange rasping sounds he was making, as if he couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes, looking directly at- she looked- an unassuming cedar tree in front of them. But he stared at it as if afraid._

_The air seemed to stutter in his chest, and his eyes squeezed shut again almost reflexively at the sight. She didn’t know what to do, and suddenly she was scared for this boy. She grabbed his hand impulsively. “Stiles?”_

_His mouth clamped shut, and he was now beginning to steady his breaths, almost forcefully, like he’d had to do this before._

_His breath came easier, but now the shuddering in his shoulders was for a different reason. Lydia impulsively wrapped her arms around him, feeling his head fall onto her shoulder. His trembling subsided somewhat._

_“Shhh, you’re okay,” she said firmly, even though she had no idea what had brought this on. She just wanted to see this golden-eyed boy smile at her again, all lopsided, so she could scoff at him and they could fall back into routine._

_She didn’t want to think what that might mean._

_He finally spoke, after a while. “Thanks.” His voice was steadier. She nodded._

_She never asked; and he didn’t explain._

_But after that she began to wonder what it was like, to be a living curse._

-x-

_They were fifteen when she met King Jackson- he was fifteen too but his parents had died, leaving him to rule from a very young age._

_She knew that Stiles didn’t like him. She knew that from the start, although he tried his best to hide his affections. Things had changed since they were ten; Lydia felt bad for what she’d flung at him so long ago but she wasn’t one to apologize, and she figured he had probably forgotten by now anyway._

_“Is what Allison said in her letters true?” he asked her one day, having caught up to her in the McCall castle mess hall at the latest conference. Allison wasn’t in attendance; she was training as a warrior back in the Argent Kingdom, and Scott missed her presence dearly. “You- you fancy Jackson?”_

_She looked at him scathingly. Of course Allison had told Scott. Of course Scott had told Stiles. She’d have to speak with Allison about keeping her mouth shut. “What’s it to you?”_

_“What’s it to_ me _?” he repeated, scrubbing his face with one hand. He was still thin and gawky, but he’d filled out somewhat and his voice had deepened and Lydia saw some of the maids look at him sometimes, although they didn’t dare approach the prince with no name. “Oh, I don’t know, Lydia, maybe the fact that he’s a_ psychopath _?”_

_She stared at him, and when she realized he was serious she laughed. “You’re being overly dramatic,” she laughed, and began walking away._

_He caught up to her immediately, hands wildly gesticulating as he talked. “I don’t like the way he looks at you, Lydia- he doesn’t respect you.”_

_That hit a nerve for some reason. She wheeled around, glaring at him. “Since when did you become an expert on relationships, Stiles?”_

_She saw him wince but he kept his composure. “I’m not, but trust me when I say I know what the face of someone who doesn’t respect you looks like,” he said, voice low, and she was reminded once again that he wasn’t just her friend with the bad jokes; that most of time, he was the butt end of one._

_She turned again to walk away, and this time he didn’t try to follow. Although she could feel his sickening puppy dog eyes following her movement. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said dismissively over her shoulder. What would he know about relationships? He’d never been in one._

-x-

_They were sixteen when he got into a relationship._

_One of the nobles’ daughters, a bit of a wild girl named Malia. Lydia wasn’t sure why she was shocked. Stiles was attractive, but she’d always assumed the curse would keep everyone away. It was selfish of her, she knew that, especially when Jackson was courting her. Though her advisors were desperately eager to get the only heir of the dying Martin kingdom married off, she kept refusing his requests for engagement._

_She told herself she didn’t quite know why, even when he an_ _grily told her this was the last time he would ask and she still said no. He left, and her advisors were terribly angry, saying she’d lose her status if she didn’t marry off soon. She didn’t really care._

_But Malia left Stiles eventually, too; and when Lydia caught up to her to ask why, she said sadly, “He wouldn’t tell me his name.” She looked up, eyes glazed. “He’s kissed me but he still won’t tell me his name.”_

_Lydia wasn’t sure she believed in the romantic fairy tales of old, that of true love’s kiss; but she still felt pity for Malia. Stiles didn’t love her._

_And no, there was not even a little bit of satisfaction tingling in her gut upon the news._

-x-

_They were still sixteen when it happened, and it was the last day she saw Stiles or Scott._

_Allison died in battle, having fallen by a rival kingdom’s sword, and the Argent kingdom- the entire Kingdom_ Alliance- _mourned._

_But no one mourned like Lydia did. She felt like her soul was broken._

_And she wanted to fix it. A different, older noble, Peter, was one of many suitors to propose, and he was handsome and charming, with dark, shining eyes. This time she agreed in despair, hoping for something, anything, to fill the void in her. The advisors were pleased- the Martin kingdom was in shambles after the original King and Queen had separated, and a marriage was needed desperately to keep their reputation in place._

_She packed her things that very day. The ceremony was to take place in his lands, but she was unprepared for Stiles barging into her chambers, nearly tripping over her travel bag in his haste._

_“Is it true?” was all he said._

_She nodded without looking at him, and nodded at her chambermaids to leave the room. It wasn’t proper of them to be together in private, of course, but she had perfected the murderous glare down to a science. When they were left alone, she replied. “I’m leaving.” Her tone held finality._

_He spoke again, voice pleading with her._

_“Please, Lydia.”_

_Her heart flipped at the low, raspy sound of his voice._

_“Please don’t do this. Don’t leave.”_

_“I have to,” she said hollowly as she zipped her travel bag._

_Now he got angry. “No! You don’t! Lydia, is this about Allison? You know your advisors are taking advantage of you right now, right? They just want you married. Please tell me you know that.”_

_She said nothing._

_“Please, we all need time, you don’t need to make a decision like this right now, we’ll-”_

_“My kingdom is ruined if I don’t marry into royalty. It had to happen at some point.” Her voice was mechanical._

_“That never stopped you before,” he pointed out. “Lydia, you don’t have to, we’ll do something about your advisors, let me- maybe you can marry Scott-” his words were wild, desperate._

_She glared at him, because how dare he? “Scott was betrothed to Allison.” Her voice didn’t break, and she was proud. “I will not disrespect her memory.”_

_“Then-” he seemed to cut himself off, and Lydia knew what he had been about to suggest- himself, and her heart almost leaped- but then he didn’t and she felt unreasonably disappointed. “Lydia, just slow down, we can talk to your advisors, figure something else out-”_

_“We can’t. There’s nothing to do.” Her voice felt almost as empty as she was._

_“Lydia, why are you giving up?” he asked, and he sounded a bit empty now too. When she didn’t reply, he said with some hope, “We can run away, you don’t_ have _to-”_

 _She cut him off. “I_ want _to.”_

_That stopped him short. There was a long pause. She didn’t turn around to look._

_Then he spoke. “You want to.” His echoed words were flat, a statement, a broken chord._

_She nodded. “I want to leave,” she said softly. “I want out. I want a new life.” She didn’t want to see anything from her past again. Because yes, as soon as she stepped out of this room, everything was in the past._

_She waited for more from Stiles, waited for him to tell her this was a mistake, waited for the fight._

_There wasn’t one. He took a shuddering breath- her back tensed- but then he said in a defeated sort of way, “Just take care of yourself, okay?”_

_She stared at her travel bag, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry. Tears blurred her vision but she viciously blinked them away._

_She turned around, and was surprised to find him halfway to the door himself. She caught his arm. “Stiles.”_

_He didn’t move for a moment, but then he finally turned his face towards her, and she saw that his eyes were damp._

_She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft, dry kiss to his cheek. When she pulled away, there was bare shock on his face from the gesture. “You too,” she whispered into his ear, and he sighed shakily at her voice and enveloped her into a hug before he left._

_She didn’t see him again. She married Peter._

_The next five years were hell._

_But she was Queen Lydia- so she kicked the Devil off his throne and claimed it for herself._

 

-x-

 

The Queen drums her fingers against her armrest while Stiles mulls over his choices silently.

“Is it truly such a horrid possibility?” Lydia says suddenly, and Stiles isn’t sure but she sounds kind of hurt by his hesitance to accept the deal.

He rubs the back of his head. Much to the contrary. “I don’t know you anymore,” he says, giving a lie as a reason. “It’s been years. You’ve changed a lot. Gained mystical powers. People say you haven’t left this palace since you killed your previous husband and took his land,” he says offhandedly.

She sniffs. “I didn’t kill him.”

He’s puzzled until he watches her hand once again drift to the snake’s head, its long body still draped around her shoulders, and is seized by a sudden rush of foreboding.

“Is that _Peter_?”

“It was.” Her voice is cool, matter-of-fact.

He swallows and his mouth feels very dry all of a sudden. “If I marry you, are you going to turn _me_ into a snake?”

“That depends,” she says, examining him with cold green eyes, “ _are_ you a snake?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead he wrings his hands.

“Choose,” Lydia now says breezily, leaning back in the throne, “choose now, or get out of my sight.”

He doesn’t choose. He stands in front of her with his mouth gaping, wondering what to do.

So she says, in a dangerous voice, “Get out.”

“Wait!” he cries before she can summon any guards. He throws his hands up in what he hopes is a placating gesture and acts impulsively. “Alright. I agree, I’ll marry you. You win.”

She examines him again intensely for another minute, and then she smiles icily and replies, “I always do.”

-x-

His wedding to The Ice Queen is not as quiet an affair as Stiles had imagined. It only occurs to him a week later, as he watches servants flit around the castle, transforming it from a drab and formidable place to one with a more cheery and bright air, that she needs this to be a public affair. It needs to be convincing for the other leaders and so, an invite has been extended to them all. He wondered briefly how they would even managed to get up here, considering he nearly toppled to his death multiple times while scaling the cliffs around the castle. The place has not been accessible to outsiders for years.

He’s voiced this question to the Queen and she simply looked at him with disdain before answering, in a condescending voice that implied he was slow, “Our dragons can bring groups of people from the base of the mountain to the top in a matter of minutes.”

He’d thrown up his hands. “Of course. _Dragons_. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Sometimes I’m impressed you can think at all,” she’d replied, and then: “Although… scaling this mountain by one’s self _does_ require an impressively quick mind.”

And then she’d walked away, leaving Stiles to stand there for several seconds to process the whiplash.

Despite her penchant for backhanded compliments, she’s been actually rather gracious, providing him with a nice set of rooms instead of a dungeon or something horrific like that, and not turning him into any sort of reptilian species as of yet, which seems a good sign. In turn, he’s done everything she’s asked; staying with her over the course of the week and going out with her on a ride through the kingdom to see her loyal subjects (or rather, for her loyal subjects to see _him_ ).

He’s not fond of any of it though, and as the day of the wedding approaches, he just feels more queasy.

So he’s relieved when guests start arriving at the castle, particularly King Scott, arriving in a wheelchair and looking more sickly than the last time he saw him.

Stiles sees him before Scott does, and he forces himself to take a moment to plaster on a smile because he has no idea how long his friend is going to last. The doctors have said he has a few weeks at most with the way the illness is progressing, and with how pale his once-golden skin is, it seems they weren’t incorrect.

Scott sees him just as Stiles is almost upon him, and immediately his face lights up. Despite himself, Stiles feels his forced smile melt into a natural one.

“How was the dragon ride?” he teases.

“Strange,” Scott remarks, right before Stiles engulfs him in a hug.

“You’re marrying The Ice Queen,” Scott says with a grin once they part. “You didn’t even tell me you were courting her!”

Stiles also didn’t tell him that there was a very specific reason he was marrying The Ice Queen, but he doesn’t want his friend to worry or feel guilty. Stiles would quite literally do anything for Scott.

When Stiles doesn’t smile back, Scott’s fades a bit. “This seems really sudden, though.”

“Well, I figured life is short,” Stiles says automatically, then realizes how that sounds. Scott doesn’t seem to notice the irony.

“I’m really happy for you,” he says, eyes crinkling at the edges, and he’s so pure and happy and genuine and Stiles really wishes, not for the first time, that he could die in Scott’s place. “You’re going to be a king!”

“Yeah,” Stiles jokes despite the fact that his heart hurts as though an iron fist is squeezing it. “Derek can have my stupid kingdom. I’ve got _Lydia_.”

There’s a knowing look in Scott’s eyes at that, even though it’s said lightly. Stiles has always suspected that Scott knows how deep his feelings for Lydia go. But he doesn’t comment on it. “We-” Scott breaks off, coughing violently all of a sudden, and Stiles doesn’t feel like joking anymore.

This scheme had better work, he thinks desperately.

-x-

A few days later is the wedding.

The servants manhandle Stiles into a suit, and as they smooth down his sleeves and button his shirt up all he can do is look into the full-size mirror and wonder if everyone can see the fear in his eyes.

“Sir,” says one of the servants tentatively, “if I may be so bold…?”

Stiles nods without looking away from his reflection. “Be as bold as you want,” he replies carelessly. Two of the female servants in the background giggle a little into their hands at that.

The servant who’s addressed him speaks again. “Smile,” he advises, “you look like you’re marching to your execution.”

“Isn’t that what this is?” Stiles mutters.

“The queen can be frosty at times,” the servant says, “but she’s kind at heart. ‘The Ice Queen’ is a misnomer. She’ll be good to you.” When Stiles doesn’t reply the servant goes on, now straightening his collar. “This day is very important for our kingdom- if it’s not convincing enough, and the other leaders don’t think the Kingdom has reformed, then they won’t trade. And the times are tough enough as they are,” he finished quietly.

Stiles’ eyes finally pry away from his haggard reflection to look at the servant. In his eyes is exhaustion and worry; Stiles notices how worn the servant’s clothes are, and he is suddenly very aware that there is even more than Scott’s life riding on the success of this agreement.

“I’ll- I’ll try,” he manages, because despite everything, that’s all he can promise.

-x-

The wedding happens in the outdoor garden.

It’s a beautiful place, Stiles is willing to admit- the place is full of beautiful, tropical plants, winding vines, ancient oaks that reach into the sky. And every single plant is encased in a sparkling, swirling layer of ice, making them twinkle in the late morning sun. He’s not really sure how that all works- are the flowers hardy and alive in there? Or are they fake, encrusted in ice? Or is it all magical? Or is he hallucinating? Because no one else seems half as entranced with the garden as he is.

But that all fades away when she appears in his line of sight.

She’s so beautiful.

When she walks- no, she _floats-_ down the aisle, Stiles feels his eyes widening and he can’t be helped to school his features into a neutral expression.

She’s wearing a deep green dress, mint lace covering her neck and shoulders and meeting the rich silk of her dress at the collarbone, where it wraps around her generous figure and flares spectacularly at the waist, the material trailing far behind her as she walks. Accompanying her is Scott, looking handsome and in slightly better spirits as he wheels his chair slowly beside her.

Stiles and Lydia had fought incessantly over the last few days over Scott, and whether he would wait with Stiles or walk with Lydia. Lydia won in the end. Stiles decides he doesn’t care too much. The two people he loves most in the world are walking towards him, beaming at him, and he decides that relenting to Lydia was the best decision he ever made.

When they join him, Scott wheels to the side, coughing quietly into his kerchief, and Stiles is still gaping at Lydia. Up close, she’s even more ethereal looking. Her eyes are shadowed above in bronze, lips painted pink, and long hair curled so it cascades in carefully wild tumbles to her waist.

When he does and says nothing her eyes flash ferociously, and he’s startled out of it. He quickly holds out his hand, palm side up.

She delicately lifts her hand and places it in his. Her skin is soft and warm, and his fingers automatically curl around hers. The crowd sighs.

The vows are short and efficient, and they pass by in a blur except for the one awkward part where they say “Will you, Queen Lydia marry…” and then trails off because well, he has no name, but Stiles quickly interjects with a sunny smile to Lydia, “-Me?” And the crowd coos. And Stiles repeats whatever he’s told to repeat, and Lydia does the same. They look into each other’s eyes the whole time, but he has no idea what she’s thinking behind that mask.

There’s an exchange of rings, and Scott hands Stiles the wrapped wedding present to give to Lydia. Her eyebrows raise a little- this isn’t traditional- but she accepts the thick rectangular package without comment and puts it aside.

And when it’s over and they’re pronounced husband and wife, King and Queen of the Martin Kingdom, the crowd waits for a kiss. He freezes up for just one second and she looks to be doing the same- neither of them have considered this aspect, which is, if not mandatory, at least very suspicious if they don’t.

 _Make it convincing_ , Stiles thinks, and in desperation he wraps his arm around her waist, tilts his head and kisses her.

Her lips are soft and dry, and she stiffens for a moment. He holds on, though, insisting through the kiss, and eventually her lips soften and her hands tentatively slide around his neck.

He’s not sure how it looks to anyone on the outside, but it’s understood between the two of them, with the way their lips remain closed, that this is nothing but a show.

The fireworks that set off in his soul have nothing to do with it.

She looks slightly dazed when they pull away, and he wonders if she’s furious with him. The crowd is roaring, and Scott on the side is grinning like a loon in his chair.

He turns to her and pleads for forgiveness with his eyes.

Well, she doesn’t turn him into a snake on the spot, so he thinks maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Later that night is a feast, and Lydia and Stiles are sitting at their spots at the head table, having a muttered conversation through the sides of their mouths.

“When will you get working on finding the magician?” Stiles mutters.

“When the guests leave,” Lydia hisses back, raising a goblet of wine to her lips. “Now put your arm around my shoulders and kiss my cheek. King Derek is watching us.”

Stiles complies, letting the kiss linger for god knows what reason, and he thinks he imagines the slight shiver from her that accompanies it. He then whispers into her ear, trying to school his expression into something of a seductive one for the onlookers, “Look, Scott is going to die any day now and you’re telling me you-”

“He’s not going to die yet,” Lydia interrupts, batting her eyelashes at nothing in particular. “Trust me, I will know when.”

He accepts that. “How will you find her?” he whispers, still leaning forward and talking into her ear.

Lydia lets out a peal of uncharacteristically light laughter, making Stiles blink a few times before he realizes that she’s still playing the part of woman in love. Then she says irritably with a smile on her face as she cuts her steak, “I _will_.”

“But-” he says with exasperation and frustration. She interrupts.

“Now smile. You look constipated.”

He pulls away and smiles exaggeratedly at her, stretching his cheek muscles as far as they will go. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Why did you have to be born with a mouth?” she wonders back.

“You like this mouth,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes, although he notices her cheeks redden slightly, or maybe that’s just the blush applied to her skin.

They’re interrupted by Malia, Scott and King Isaac, whose own cheeks are ruddy for entirely different reasons.

“Stiles!” he booms, leaning on Malia beside him for support, who makes a face at Stiles. He grins at her. “I can’t believe you fooled Lydia into marrying you.”

Stiles leans forward. “What if I told you it was the other way around?” he says, knowing that Isaac will take it as a joke.

“I’d say lying this early in a marriage is detrimental,” Isaac replies, nearly sloshing his wine on his crisp white shirt.

“I’d believe it,” Scott says, and sends Lydia a very meaningful sort of look that Stiles doesn’t understand, but she seems to because she looks down into her plate.

“I’m exhausted,” she announces suddenly, letting her fork drop with a clatter. “Stiles and I will be retiring to our rooms for the evening.” Stiles can’t agree more; he stands, his chair scraping back with a screech, and pulls hers out for her as well.

Malia frowns, forever blunt. “Why?”

“Because it’s their wedding night,” King Isaac sings, winking. Scott playfully wolf-whistles his agreement. “And you know what happens on wedding nights.”

-x-

Their wedding night consists of the two of them passing a bottle of wine back and forth.

“Do you think they’ll call me The Ice King now?” he asks, tipping his head back with a laugh.

Lydia ignores his question and smacks her lips. “You’re pathetic,” she says spitefully in a tone suggesting she’s been mulling it over.

He turns his head towards her from where he’s sprawled on the pillows of their frankly astronomically sized bed. “Why’s that?”

She launches right into it. “You have all the power in the world, you know that, don’t you? You could strike terror into the hearts of your enemies. You could easily have fought Derek for your throne. You could have prevented your becoming the laughingstock of the Stilinski court. They fear your name. It is your greatest weapon and you didn’t even use it.”

He considers her words detachedly as he turns back to the spot on the ceiling his eyes were burning a hole into, a little too drunk to really feel the bite of this truth. “I guess,” he says finally, bringing the bottle to his lips and looking far off, and he knows the drink has loosened his tongue when he softly adds, “I don’t want to live off of fear.” She stares at him when he doesn’t elaborate, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling. His name has already killed too many. It’s killing Scott, right now. Stiles doesn’t want anything more to do with his name. And besides, he thinks he’s already more afraid of it than anyone else.

He wonders, for the first time, if Lydia is afraid of his name too.

“You’re too soft for your own good,” she remarks when he remains silent after that.

He shrugs and takes another swig before stretching his arm forward to offer her the bottle without looking. She takes it and continues.

“It’s precisely why you were the perfect candidate to become my king.”

Now he turns his head back, one eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

“It means I know you won’t try to usurp me,” she says bluntly, tossing the bottle back to him. Somehow he catches it with both hands. “You won’t go against me. You will be my husband in name for all the other kingdoms to see, and my puppet whose strings I shall pluck when needed.”

Stiles considers that for a moment. “Pluck my strings any day,” he giggles, and yes, he’s quite drunk. His quiet chortles make him tilt his head back, propped up on his forearms, and he’s suddenly seized by the ridiculousness of the entire situation. He’s just married the long-feared Ice Queen of the North whom he hasn’t even seen for six years before this, on the flimsy hope that she _might-_ not even _close_ to a guarantee- be able to shed light on how to break his curse, where no one else before her, royal magicians and doctors alike, had ever succeeded. And he’d agreed to it all because she’d blackmailed and insulted him, making it clear that this was his only hope for any kind of future.

And this isn’t even the most ridiculous part. The most ridiculous part is, that despite all of this, he is still hopelessly in _love_ with her.

“What’s so funny?” the Ice Queen in question asks him sharply from her armchair.

He drags a hand over his face, still laughing. What’s funny is that he’s absolutely _fucked_ , in every way possible, for the rest of his miserable life.

When he doesn’t answer she says, “I think that’s enough wine.”

He stops laughing immediately, clutching the bottle to his chest. She looks serious. “Don’t do this to me, Lydia.”

Her voice is icy. “Give it to me.”

He clutches it harder. “No.”

Her eyes turn to steel when he denies her, and his heart jumps at her angry stance as she rises off the armchair. And hell if that isn’t the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed, this red-headed (well not quite _red_ ) queen approaching him in an ethereal green dress and with murder in her eyes. He’ll die happy.

He decides that she is definitely a little drunk as well when she leans over the bed and tries to physically pry the bottle from his grip. “Give it to me.”

He rolls onto his side, away from her, where he’s less of a target. “No.” he knows he sounds petulant, doesn’t even care.

She sounds just a little bit amused when she replies. “You’re drunk, Stiles. Give it to me.” A pause.  “I just want some more.”

Now that she’s admitted her true intentions, he smiles into the pillow. “I guess I’m not such a pushover after all.”

The next thing he knows, he’s making an ‘oof’ sound because she’s suddenly sitting on top of him. He barely has the presence of mind to look down in shock and see her bare, pale legs straddling his waist where her dress has hiked up before her hands are tugging at the bottle of wine.

“ _Lydia_!” he says with shock as he turns his head back to her, because this definitely isn’t the proper behavior that he has come to expect from The Queen.

He must sound truly scandalized, because she stops in her struggle to look at him coolly. “It’s our wedding night, Stiles. This is hardly the most shocking thing I could be doing to you right now.”

She’s looking at him with those green eyes and he knows she’s not serious at all but he can’t help but flush at the implication, especially when she’s hovering above him with her hair loosening from its curls and the tops of her shoulders gleaming in the low light of the candles surrounding the bed and her weight settled around his middle in the most pleasing way possible and _god_ she’s so close to him he can smell the light scent of her perfume and it drives him up the wall. He’s suddenly aware that his hands have travelled without his volition and are ghosting on the outsides of her thighs and she looks down and realizes this at the same time, and he’s afraid she will slap him for his forwardness.

She doesn’t. For one moment they’re not their titles, not married out of a cold deal, just the young Stiles and Lydia, both watching almost curiously where the palms of his hands hover against the skin of her thighs as if they’re mesmerized by what might happen. He feels like he’s not breathing at all when his hands finally stop lightly grazing and place themselves, deliberately, on her skin. She’s cool to the touch, soft. They both exhale when his hands press against her legs, so gently. He can’t get over how right it feels. Like his hands were meant to hold her like this and every other task has been meaningless.

It’s such a small point of contact but an intimate one nonetheless, and he isn’t sure but when she looks up next, it seems to _mean_ something to her too.

In fact, she seems oddly out of breath when she breaks eye contact and resumes tugging at the bottle. When he doesn’t relent, she rises on her heels, pulling at the wine with all her body weight, and when he finally lets go with a quiet sigh, she’s unprepared, sent reeling backwards by the force of her own momentum.

She lands on the floor at the foot of the bed, and he scrambles off as well to crouch next to her where she’s lying on her back. She looks a little glassy-eyed.

He cards his fingers through her silky hair, feeling for a bump. Finding nothing, he exhales in relief. “Are you okay?”

In answer her eyes flicker up to his, and without looking away, she pops the bottle open with her teeth, spits the stopper at his chest and brings the bottle to her lips that are curving oh so very slightly into a smile.

He can’t help his small grin in return. Maybe this whole arrangement won’t be so bad. Still, he plays his part. “Lydia,” he sighs, settling back on his heels and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt because he may as well get comfortable, “that bottle of wine was all I _had_.”

She’s watching his fingers work at the buttons with a strange amount of intensity, but at those words she pops the bottle from her mouth with a loud smacking sound, and he’s mesmerized by the shape of her full lips reddened by the wine. She raises her free hand, showing him the ring he’d slipped on her finger hours earlier. “Well, now you have me too.”

Her voice isn’t nearly as icy as he thinks she was hoping.

-x-

They fall asleep on the bed on top of the covers, fully clothed and wine bottles dangling from their fingers, and he wakes up with a start when he’s slapped gently across the face. He blinks blearily, noting the weak light coming through the window. It’s early morning and he could definitely sleep longer than this.

“Lydia, what the hell-”

“Get up!” she snaps face hovering above his, and, “Take off your shirt!” Before he is able to process that, he realizes that all she’s wearing is a bra and panties.

He’s wide awake now as he takes in all the pale, smooth skin that’s suddenly been revealed. “Let me repeat that. Lydia, what the _hell-_ ”

“The maids will be coming in any moment now,” she hisses, “and they’re prone to talk. We have to look like- like-”

“Like we actually had a wedding night,” he finishes flatly. “An outrageous one.”

“Yes!” she says, looking flustered, and because he hasn’t moved yet (it normally takes him a few minutes to regain feeling in his limbs after he’s passed out like this), she’s leaning down and unbuttoning his shirt for him, which is far too much for him to handle. He catches her hands and pulls them away and does it himself; in the meantime she turns away and rips the comforter away from the bed, mussing up the sheets.

When he’s shed himself of his shirt, she turns and says, “Okay, get in-” she stops for a moment when she takes him in and he feels self-conscious a moment- he isn’t nearly as muscled as Jackson was, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fit- he thinks, anyway-

They ogle each other for a good minute because they’ve never seen each other like this. Her black underclothes look soft and inviting, and his fingers itch to reach out and touch them.

But before he can act on that inherently stupid instinct, she’s shoving him in the back and he quickly gets under the sheets. She follows soon after, and he pulls the comforter up.

They lie there on their sides, looking at each other with wide eyes. “Great,” Stiles remarks finally. “Can I go to sleep now?”

She frowns, looking harried. “I suppose.”

He’s just about to close his eyes when something occurs to him.

“Wait,” he says, and reaches out his hands to tangle in her hair, running his fingers through the strands and loosening the curls. “I think this would be more convincing,” he explains.

She understands immediately, and suddenly her small hands are coming up as well, behind his neck and slowly running her own fingers through his hair from the base of his skull to the front.

It’s strangely intimate; the two of them running their fingers through each other’s hair. Stiles finds himself again combing through strands that he’s already loosened, all for the excuse of keeping his hands in her silky hair.

“You have to make it messy, not comb it out,” Lydia says with exasperation.

“Right,” he mutters, half-heartedly rubbing his hands through it because it’s so pretty he doesn’t want to mess it up. Lydia has no such qualms, and when she’s done with him he’s sure he looks like a porcupine.

She finally physically removes his hands from her hair and he forlornly watches as she messes it up herself, and then he instinctively wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her in, flush against his bare chest.

She sucks in a sharp breath when he does so, and he raises an eyebrow, daring her to tell him off.

Eventually she relaxes (slightly) and he tucks his head into the crook of her neck and breathes deeply. She smells so good he almost has half a mind to tell her, but he’s decided that scales would not look good on him. At all.

He falls asleep, only to be awoken a few minutes later by the maids, who walk in and then begin to back out, giggling. Lydia, clearly ready for this moment, rises from the bed, propping herself up by the elbows. Stiles snags her bra strap with his teeth and pulls it down her arm as she rises because it looks far too put together otherwise. She stiffens infinitesimally at the action.

“No, come in,” Lydia says in a convincingly sleepy tone, “we were just getting up. Weren’t we?”

“Mmmhm,” he murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow and nuzzling his face into her neck. The maids blush furiously and he can’t see Lydia’s face but her neck is looking a little flushed too. He smiles to himself. Maybe she isn’t as cold and distant to him as she likes to act.

It’s all hunky-dory until one of the maids speaks.

“My queen,” she whispers, averting her eyes. “We just came to say-King Scott has taken seriously ill overnight.”

-x-

“His condition isn’t stable enough to take him back to the McCall kingdom just yet,” whispers one of the healers to Lydia, Stiles standing beside her with his hands on his hips and one foot nervously tapping. They’re huddled right outside Scott’s bedroom, heads bent towards one another. “Most of the rest of the McCall delegation is leaving shortly with the rest, under the trust and knowledge that he’ll be well taken care of here for the next few days.”

“And he will be,” Lydia replied, her tone firm but her eyes sad. Stiles sees it in her expression.

He wonders if she can sense it coming.

He exhales a shaky breath. “Can- can we see him?” he asks, gaze flickering towards the heavy door separating him and his best friend.

“Of course, my king,” the healer replies, and Stiles almost gives a start at the use of the title. He notices Lydia stiffen beside him as well, and it’s like they’re both realizing that this is real.

As they follow the healer to the door, he leans over and whispers to Lydia, “What are they going to call me? No one’s going to take ‘King Stiles’ seriously.”

“No one takes you seriously anyway,” Lydia says with a truly spectacular roll of her eyes, “they can call you ‘King Idiot’ for all we care.”

“By ‘we’ do you mean you and me? Because _me_ definitely cares if they call me King Id-”

The door swinging open brings the heated bickering to a close, and Stiles rushes in front of the healer and to Scott’s bedside immediately.

“Scott…” the name is torn in an agonized sort of wail from his lips. He crouches to eye level at the side of the bed.

Scott’s looking paler than he’s ever looked, eyelids fluttering as if with a seizure. His skin is damp with sweat, and he doesn’t respond.

“He’s been unresponsive for most of the morning,” the healer supplies.

Stiles snaps, whirling. “And you couldn’t have said something earlier?”

“That’ll be all, Paula,” Lydia says sharply to the healer, and she bows out and leaves.

She turns to Stiles, who now has his head in his hands. “Collect yourself,” she snaps at him. “It doesn’t do any good f-”

“I don’t give a damn!” he bellows, rounding on her now, because how can she stand there with a calm look on her face and claim to be a friend to Scott? Her mouth is a hard line, not reacting to his outburst. He rises, walks up to her, and she doesn’t back down. They’re close- toe to toe, nose to nose, and he’s looking straight into her resolute green eyes. “I don’t give a damn about _anything_ if Scott dies.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t waver at the pain that almost breaks his voice. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to collect himself for his next words.

“Go find that magician,” he says very quietly. “Find her now. Bring her here. And Scott had better live or so help me god I’m leaving and I don’t care if this entire _kingdom_ burns down.” It’s an awful thing to say, even if inside he knows he doesn’t mean it, but Stiles has never claimed to be an unselfish person.

She accepts that, chin up, unblinking. He doubts she finds him intimidating, which is why when she walks away stiffly to the door he lets himself add, “Lydia.”

She barely turns her head, so that he can see the length of her eyelashes peek out from behind her cheekbone.

“Please,” he says simply. He hopes she understands.

There’s no visible change in her posture. But he sees her eyelashes sweep down, and then the door is swinging shut behind her.

-x-

He doesn’t see her for days.

Although, he finds out that matters of the Martin Kingdom have been temporarily placed in his hands until she gets back from what the advisors tell him is “an urgent errand that she must attend to”. The way the advisors look at him with something like disgust tells him they’re about as fond of this decision as he is.

Whatever paltry decisions of day-to-day politics are to be made, he makes them. Not to be cliche, but no matter what the advisors tell him to decide, the major thing he takes into account is “what would Lydia do?” He likes to think he knows her pretty damn well.

Nonetheless, he spends most of his time with Scott at his bedside, or in the extensive library, searching for an answer.

One day, several after his last conversation with Lydia, he’s dozing off in an armchair at the side of Scott’s bed when he hears a voice say his _name_. His _real_ name.

His eyes pop open immediately, limbs flying everywhere, and the book previously on his lap sails through the air and lands on Scott’s bed, right on his hand. He winces. “Ow!”

Stiles isn’t even able to process the fact that his friend is speaking. “What the hell, Scott?! There could be people around!”

“There’s not.” The other king has a lazy, carefree grin on his face, although his voice is still weak. “I’m dying because of your name. I think I at least have the right to say it whenever I want.” He says it again, softly.

Stiles holds up his hands. “Stop saying it. Stop it right now. Stop it stop it stop it- oh, I hate you,” he sighs, as Scott mutters his name in between every ‘stop it’ that Stiles utters. “How are you feeling?”

Scott shifts slightly in his bed, wincing. “Like a dragon decided my chest was a trampoline. Where’s Lydia?” he asks with a slight cough, looking around the room.

“She’s out,” Stiles says dismissively.

Scott sinks back into his pillows with a sigh. “I can’t really feel my legs,” he says conversationally. Stiles closes his eyes. “That’s weird. Anyway. It’s so cool that we’re both kings now!”

Stiles opens his eyes just to raise his eyebrows.

“Oh, come on,” Scott says in the face of Stiles’ lack of enthusiasm, “we’ve been talking about that since we were kids. How we would rule together and have the best relationship any two kingdoms have ever had. Well, at least until I die and Liam takes the throne, but-”

“Don’t say that,” Stiles interrupts him with a sharper tone than he intended. When Scott looks at him, he just waves an arm aimlessly. “Just don’t. You’re not dying, okay?”

Scott offers a sad smile in response. “It’s gonna happen, Stiles. I’m just planning for it. And it’s fine,” he says when Stiles opens his mouth, “it’s fine.”

The crazy thing is how genuine he sounds. Stiles can’t help how emotional he feels in this moment. Scott goes on, in something of a hopeful voice.

“I think this was meant to happen. I mean, I don’t know if there’s an afterlife, but who knows? Maybe I’ll get to see Allison again...” He sounds so happy at the prospect, so happy at the possibility of dying, simply to see his first love who died before her time...

And something dreadful, a truly terrifying thought, suddenly slips into his mind.

Scott’s still going. “I’ve always wondered- You know, you might say I was _dying_ of curiosity… haha…”

“Scott,” Stiles says quietly.

“No one can say my sense of humor deteriorated with my health… What?”

“Scott.” Stiles’ heart is thundering near-painfully in his ears. “Did Allison know my name?”

Scott’s eyes snap up and then back down. “No. Why would you say that?” His voice is suddenly overly casual.

Panic seizes Stiles, moving him to grab his friend’s shoulders.

“Scott,” he cries, clutching his best friend and shaking him a little bit. “ _Did Allison know my name_?”

He already knows the answer by now, but when Scott slowly raises his head and his eyes are full of sorrow and a broken heart that is _Stiles’_ _fault_ , he breaks.

His curse is- or will be- responsible for the death of everyone he loves.

Except for one- the only one that doesn’t love him back . But if she did, she could break the curse.

But Lydia doesn’t love him. Oh how he wishes there were no curse, so he’d be free to feel guiltless to love whomever he wants, Lydia- but no, he is supposed to love with _purpose_. Love someone who will love him back, so he can have his true love’s kiss and save everyone. But _he can’t_. And so love is synonymous with guilt. The simple fact that he exists, loving hopelessly and living and breathing with a name branded upon his soul, makes him a murderer.

He’ll never be free from this madness, he realizes with despair.

No one else. Allison Argent will be the last to die at his hands, because of his weak-willed heart. He vows it, silently, while holding onto his best friend’s hand while Scott repeats, “I’m sorry,” over and over, as if it shouldn’t be Stiles saying that to him.

-x-

Stiles spends hours upon feverish hours in the library the next day, on the ladder searching the topmost dusty shelves, throwing books on the table and pouring through those thick tomes until he can’t see straight anymore. He’s not sure why he thinks there’s an answer in there somewhere. He’s pretty sure they would have found one by now.

At some point he has to accept that there’s only one way this madness ends.

“Allison didn’t want you to know that she knew,” Scott says quietly when a defeated Stiles comes to visit him. “When she was waiting to scare us in the bushes the day you told me your name- you didn’t know any better,” he adds sternly when Stiles looks away, “she heard it too. And we talked about it. We knew we were both going to die. But guess what, Stiles? Neither of us regretted the chance to know you. She _loved_ you,” he says, and Stiles is blinking away tears now. “Just like I do. And guess what else?” And then he says his name again. “I don’t even regret knowing your name. You know why?”

Stiles doesn’t even bother hiding the wetness in his eyes because he sees it mirrored in Scott’s.

“Because I can’t have been the only kid in the sandbox who asked for your name that day,” Scott whispers, “but I was the only one you gave it to.”

Stiles is openly crying now and Scott looks utterly spent, sagging back on the pillows. Stiles follows, hands clasped over his friend’s cheeks, and he’s a blubbering mess. “Scott, don’t go, don’t you dare,” he chants, his words tripping over sobs wrenched from his chest. “I can’t do it, Scott, I can’t do it without you. I love you.”

“Yes you can,” Scott slurs faintly, and his eyes close and his head tips back. Stiles frantically checks for a pulse with tear stained hands. It’s there. And he’s still breathing. Exhaling in relief, Stiles leans back in his chair, watching the steady rise and fall of Scott’s chest under the blankets like he might miss something if he blinks.

That’s when the door bursts open in a rush, disturbing the quiet of the room. He doesn’t turn, just waits for whatever advisor is there to ask him to make yet another perfunctory decision so that he can snap at him and get rid of some of the tension that’s been vibrating in his bones for days.

He doesn’t expect the voice that speaks.

“Stiles.”

He jumps from his chair then, whipping around to face her.

She looks out of breath, cheeks flushed from the wind as if she’d run from the entrance all the way here. “I have her. The magician.”

-x-

He feels like he’s in a trance when the door to the weapons room opens in a suspiciously empty hall of the castle. Lydia’s warned everyone away.

She’s sitting there, bound to a chair in the centre of the room with thick rope and tape tightly stuck over her mouth.

“If she can’t speak, she can’t work her spells,” Lydia explains to him triumphantly. “Just an extra precaution, although she shouldn’t be able to get out of _those_ ropes, anyway.” It’s then that he notices that it’s not in fact rope that binds Jennifer to the chair, it’s Lydia’s snake, moving and coiling just slightly enough that he didn’t see the first time.

He takes a moment to shudder before he continues his cataloguing as he prowls around her. Lydia stands in the spot and watches.

Her dark-eyed gaze is ferocious- she’s got long, black hair that tumbles wildly down her back and over her shoulders, and is wearing a shapeless black shift, pale collarbone adorned with a necklace of some sort. Her eyes are challenging him, and her mouth tries to move behind the tape but fails.

“How’d you find her, anyway?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the magician.

“Oh, Jennifer here?” Lydia says offhandedly. “Well, she heard I was trying to find her, apparently, knew it was only a matter of time and came to try to strangle me. A failed attempt, obviously, which made my job significantly easier.”

Stiles takes a minute to turn to Lydia, his wide-eyed gaze sweeping over her neck. She looks unblemished. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she says, but he’s not entirely convinced; he drifts closer, puts his hand on her cheek, moves her head so he can see better.

“I’m fine,” she says a little breathlessly when he swipes his fingers over her throat gently. “I had a few tricks of my own that she didn’t take into account.”

Satisfied, he takes a step back. “One of these days you’re going to have to tell me straight out what the hell your powers are.” He turns back to the witch. “So. Lydia, you said she can’t escape as long as she’s bound?”

“Yes, but as a precaution-”

“We’re on a schedule.” He leans forward and rips the tape from the magician’s mouth. Her head falls forward with a gasp.

She immediately spits something out, words that are too fast and too foreign for Stiles to understand. After a beat of silence, she repeats it, looking down at the ground, and then she looks up at the ceiling and lets out a frustrated scream.

Stiles shares a pleased look with Lydia. The whole snake thing had worked. “Looks like Peter was good for something after all,” he remarks. Lydia almost smiles. He doesn’t know what she went through with Peter but he’s willing to bet it was nothing he’d wish on anybody. Another thing he’ll ask her about one day.

“So, Jennifer,” he says pleasantly, when the witch stops screaming. “Do you remember me?”

She watches him spitefully from behind a curtain of hair. “You’re some whiny spoiled brat of a king who wants me to grant him eternal power or something of the like,” she says in a monotone. “That’s all I _need_ to know.”

Stiles gnashes his teeth together. “You know, I don’t think you remember me at all. Maybe you’ll remember my mother,” he spits. Jennifer’s expression is still blank and almost bored. “Do you remember cursing Queen Claudia and her newborn son to damn hell, or is that sort of thing too much of a strain on your memory?”

The magician’s face pales immediately upon the mention, expression suddenly drawn tight. It’s only for a moment, though, before she’s wiped blank again.

But that’s all he needs to know.

“Tell us how to break the curse,” Lydia says from behind him, voice icy as her reputation, “or you die.”

Jennifer shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ll have figured out an escape by then.”

“Well then,” Lydia says, as if she was ready for this answer, “I guess you need a little more incentive. Stiles?”

He starts, realizing she’s addressing him. She tilts her head towards the witch meaningfully, raises her eyebrows at him. “Why don’t you give her a taste of her own medicine?”

He catches on immediately. God, she’s cutthroat all right. He loves it. He rounds on the witch and resolve hardens in him. “Lydia, put your hands over your ears,” he commands, and she complies, turning away.

Jennifer catches on too, when he starts leaning in towards her, and pales, beginning now to strain against her restraints where before she had been relaxed.

He steadies her wild struggling with one hand on her shoulder as he almost gently pushes her coarse hair behind her ear.

“No!” she screeches.

Stiles doesn’t waver. He knows Scott might have. But Stiles isn’t a good person.

Stiles whispers his true name in her ear, and he knows she’s heard even over her own screaming by the way she falters.

Her breath stutters, and it almost looks like she’s having trouble breathing. Stiles pulls back, placing his hands on the armrests on either side of Jennifer. “Now break the spell, or _you_ get to die, too.” And from the looks of her paling skin, soon.

The magician glares at him with open hatred, and her eyes flicker to Lydia.

Stiles knows what Jennifer’s going to do before she does.

He whips his head around. “Lydia, _get out_!” he roars, clapping his hand over Jennifer’s mouth just as she is drawing breath.

Lydia turns, looking alarmed at the scene in front of her. Jennifer’s straining against Stiles’ hand now, and he’s afraid. He’s afraid the magician is going to let herself die and take Lydia with her out of spite.

Jennifer tries to say something, muffled against his hand, and his grip grows ever tighter. His palm starts to burn painfully all at once; the shock of it almost makes him lift his hand out of reaction but at the last millisecond he stays his hand, even though whatever the magician is doing to him feels like agony.

“Get out and go as far as you can!” he shouts at Lydia again, but she’s still rooted to the spot. “Lydia, _please_!” His voice is haggard. The Queen finally seems to be jarred from her shock, and she’s realizing what’s going on and running out of the chamber.

The door slams shut and Stiles counts to thirty; thirty seconds of eyes tearing and biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, before he can’t bear it anymore and he rips his hand, searing in pain, away from the witch’s mouth with a choking sound.

She does what he expects, screams his true name as loud as she can, and he can only reel back and hope Lydia got away from this part of the castle in the time he was able to give her.

Stiles waits until the witch is done before sneering, “You pronounced it wrong, anyway,” and finally giving a little attention to his hand. It’s mottled, burned ugly red like it was set on fire.

(Worth it.)

He ignores it for the time being and collapses into the chair opposite from Jennifer. Like him, she’s breathing hard.

“You’re not looking too well, Jennifer,” Stiles says, and he hears his voice as it is, ugly and hard and monstrous because he knows he just sentenced this woman to death. He gestures to her face with his normal hand. “You look a little- well, peaked. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Go to hell,” Jennifer spits at him.

He smirks. “You first.”

He waits calmly now, watching her with a calculating glint.

She finally speaks, sounding only a little desperate. “I can’t break the curse, you know.”

He’s not convinced, and he shows it by folding his arms.

She glares at him, slumped over in her chair. “I’m serious. Twenty-one years ago I’d just discovered my powers. I was young and stupid and wielded magic I didn’t know how to control. I got lost in the power, wrought spells on slight disagreements like I did with your mother- spells that to this day I don’t understand.” She shakes her head. “All you’ve done is doom us both-”

One thing registers. “You ruined my life over a _slight disagreement_?” he snarls, and this powerful magician almost seems to cower at his dangerous tone of voice, like she’s finally seeing the monster she created when she took everything away from him before he even had it.

This can’t be it; he can’t have come all this way, had all this _hope_ , only to be squashed by this terrifying truth. “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t think-” Jennifer starts helplessly.

“ _Think harder_!” he bursts, standing and towering over her. It can’t be over like this; he cannot sit here and believe this, that he was cursed for absolutely no good reason and people died for no reason and now more will die and he will always be cursed because a magician couldn’t keep a lid on her own power-

No. He won’t let Scott die.

He looks around and grabs a sword off the weapons rack, twirling it in his fingers. “Figure it out, or I save the curse some trouble and kill you right now,” he threatens.

She’s silent, looking fearful now. Good.

“Maybe killing you will break the curse,” he says almost thoughtfully, and brings the sword back. He knows it won’t, but the tactic is working if the terror growing in her eyes is any indication.

“Wait!” she screams, as his sword slices down. She’s leaning back in her chair that’s now standing on the two back legs, straining away from the blade pressed gently against her throat. “There is a way.”

He delivers a hard glare that he hopes emulates Lydia’s. “You’ve got five seconds.”

She swallows and quickly speaks. “It’s a rare thing, but it works _if_ done with the right intent,” she says in a rush. “The kiss of your one true love.”

The sword slackens in his grip upon those words, and when he truly registers them, watches the truth shine in her desperate eyes, he lets that sword clatter to the floor and drags his healthy hand down his face with a hollow, deprecating laugh.

It’s unreal, he thinks, how it always works out this way.

“You have a true lover, do you not?” Jennifer asks eagerly. “Your queen.”

It takes him a moment for him to realize she’s talking about Lydia. “No,” he states flatly, “she doesn’t love me.” The words curdle in his stomach. Scott is going to die now because of him, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.

The magician seems surprised at that. “Your marriage is one of convenience?”

He glares at her, almost offended. “That’s not rare among royalty.”

“No,” Jennifer agrees, “it just surprises me, that’s all. She certainly looks at you like that.”

He looks at her sharply, wondering what game she is playing now. “Like what?”

Jennifer’s eyes take on a faraway look. “Like the way Kali looked at me,” she says softly.

There’s a story there, Stiles can tell, but he honestly cannot care less at this moment. And too much time has passed, he can tell by the way the sunlight falls through the window. Scott is near death, and the least Stiles can do is be there for him when he passes. And hate himself for the rest of his life, but that’s a matter to face tomorrow.

So he leaves- without another word to Jennifer, swinging the door shut to the chamber that holds her, not even sure she’ll still be there when he comes back calling. He’s not sure he cares either. She can’t help them. No one can.

He returns to Scott’s room on the other side of the castle, and his normally brown skin is pale, a greyish undertone stealing the colour from his face. Stiles hates it. His eyes are closed as he lies back against the pillows, and Lydia sits on the stool next to him, worrying her lip with her teeth as she used to do when they were young and she was anxious.

She jumps up from her chair when he enters. “Well?”

He looks right back, unable to bear the look of hope on her face, so he looks back at the floor. “No,” he says simply.

“No?” she echoes.

“She can’t break it.” And then, because saying it out loud makes it more real, he says again, more bleakly, “Lydia, she _can’t break it._ ” He covers his face with his hands and sinks down into the armchair she vacated.

There’s a long pause; she’s silent so long that he looks up again, albeit through slightly blurry vision. She looks so sad, so desolate, that another thought occurs to him, an absolutely terrifying one. “Lydia, did you- you didn’t _hear_ -?”

“No,” she replies immediately with certainty, and he exhales shakily in relief and sinks back into the cushions. There’s one good thing in all this mess. At the very least he won’t have killed absolutely _everyone_ that ever got close to him. At least he won’t have killed _Lydia_.

Scott makes a choking sound and they both startle, jerking towards him. He’s lying on the bed, but his whole body is convulsing, twisting in horrible jerking motions. Stiles instinctively reaches forward to hold him down by the shoulders, trying to steady him.

Lydia pushes him out of the way, hissing, “you idiot,” before turning Scott on to his side and throwing back at him, “quick, get the healer!”

As if _she_ can do anything, Stiles thinks, turning to back out of the room and running down the hallway. He’s only taken a few bounds before he feels an inexplicable tightening in his chest, like his lungs have shrunken down two sizes and suddenly aren’t enough to accommodate him.

He gasps, trying to take another step but failing; his one hand grasps fruitlessly for purchase on the wall, and then he’s sinking to his knees, unable to keep himself upright. His heart is beating too fast, and he wills himself angrily to get up. No- _no_ , this can’t be happening now- he hasn’t had one for _ages-_

His best friend is dying in the next room, and he’s right outside having a panic attack.

Frustrated tears prick at his eyes, and he tries to crawl but he can’t get enough air in all of a sudden. His vision goes foggy, his ears stuffed with cotton. A dragon is sitting on his chest and all he can do is gasp for breath.

The door behind him opens. “Stiles?” Lydia’s voice is alarmed.

“Lydia? He’s- he’s- you should stay with him,” he manages to get out through hiccoughing breaths, and then she’s at his side, turning him towards the wall.

It’s her turn to place her hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him. “He’s not dying just yet,” she says firmly. “Trust me, I can tell.”

“But- he- will,” he pants in response, unable to slow his shallow breathing. “And- my- fault.”

“It’s not your fault.” Her hands are on his face now, stroking his cheeks. “Shhh. Breathe, Stiles, _breathe_!”

He’s trying, he’s trying, but all he can see in his mind’s eye is another person he loves dying because of his curse, and he’s not sure he can bear it anymore. “Can’t,” he managed to gasp hopelessly, and he’s gulping for air but none of his usual techniques for control seem to be working. The air doesn’t seem to be reaching his lungs, it’s rushing out somewhere in between through the ever-present hole in his chest-

She kisses him.

One second he’s staring into her wide green eyes, and the next her lips are hard on his, pushing, and he forgets everything. He’s lost in her and the smell of her hair, falling in a curtain around his face as if to shield him from the ways of the world.

Then he’s pushing back, and her hands are dragging down his face the same way her lush lips are dragging down his lips, and her nose is dragging down the line of his nose and he’s certain he’s stopped breathing somewhere in between.

The kiss is more than just to shut him up. It’s a desperate plea to the world. It’s like she’s trying to fix him with the feel of her lips, trying to swallow everything bad, shield him from the wicked curse that killed him a day after he’d been born. She’s trying to push every reassurance into this kiss, every hope that it will all be alright, trying to silence the curse as much as she tries to silence him.

He’s known her lips would have to eventually drag off of his if they continued that torturous downward pattern, and then they do, softly, lingering before she pulls away slowly, and then he’s staring at her with new eyes.

She’s doing the same.

“W-” It takes him a moment to make his voice work, because suddenly he thinks he might be dreaming. “Why’d you do that?” His voice is raspier than usual.

She blinks a few times before answering, her own hands still curled slightly around the air in front of her face as if she’s still holding onto him. “You needed to calm down. And when I kissed you…” she hesitates, swallowing and looking down, “you held your breath.”

“Oh,” he says, and the word is a massive understatement hanging between them from the way her kiss is still tingling on his lips, as if that makes sense and everything is fine now when in fact everything has changed forever.

The moment is lost when her eyes on the ground stray to his hand. And then, sharply, “What happened to your hand?”

“Nothing happened to my hand,” he mumbles, struggling to stand with his healthy hand braced on the wall for support. She rises with him, grasping his burnt one in both of hers.

“I’ll get the healer,” she says finally, looking up. “For _both_ of you.”

He blinks, all reason flooding back. “Scott- is he okay? He’s not going to die yet?”

She looks uncertain, then resolved when he pales. “No, I don’t think so.”

He nods; she disappears down the hall.

Stiles returns to his best friend’s rooms. He’s not ready for what he sees.

Scott’s lying in his bed, seizing again. This time there’s foam frothing at the sides of his mouth. His eyelids are fluttering erratically.

Stiles nearly trips over his feet running forward to steady him; remembering what Lydia did before, he turns him onto his side away from him, and he doesn’t know what else to do besides that, but Lydia said- Lydia said she didn’t think he was going to die yet-

That’s when Scott stills completely.

Stiles waits a beat, thinking it might just be a lapse, but when Scott doesn’t stir again, Stiles turns Scott slightly back to look at his face.

He’s not breathing, Stiles realizes suddenly. Scott’s not breathing.

“Scott?” he says frantically, checking for a pulse. He can’t feel anything; but his fingers are slipping, he can’t get a proper feel of his pulse suddenly- it’s all too much-

Scott takes a great, gulping breath, rising abruptly from the bed into a sitting position with his eyes wide open.

“Scott!” He could nearly cry with relief. He thinks he is, actually.

Scott turns his head, and that’s when Stiles notices that there’s actual colour in his skin, that his eyes aren’t hazy, and that his left foot is tapping restlessly under the blankets-

“You did it,” Scott says wonderingly, and he sounds healthy and not like his lungs are trying to choke him from the inside.

Stiles is barely able to keep up with events. “I…”

Scott’s face breaks into a huge grin. “You broke the curse.”

Stiles sits there in stunned silence. Scott has no such reservations; suddenly he’s upon him, sweeping him up into a strong hug reminiscent of their happier years long past. Scott’s squeezing so tight Stiles is certain he’s going to leave bruises but he couldn’t care less, honestly, and then King Scott speaks, no; he booms, with laughter in his voice:

“Stiles! You broke the curse!”

And the sound of his best friend’s voice, loud with health and free of the raspiness, the constant cough, that had ailed him for so long- a sound that Stiles had almost forgotten- it breaks him in the best way. He starts to cry and he doesn’t even care how he looks.

“Scott- how- oh my god, _Scott-_ ” He’s hugging him back now. Stiles’ best friend is _not_ going to die today. All he can feel at this moment, all he can process, is relief.

Scott sets him down finally and beams and Stiles finds himself mirroring it. “How did you do it?”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Stiles asks back in confusion. “Like, no offense, but literally ten minutes ago you were totally dying and we didn’t do a…” He trails off.

Scott waits for more but when Stiles remains silent, Scott cocks his head. “‘We’ didn’t do what?”

Stiles doesn’t respond because he’s made the connection, finally, and suddenly feels like he’s going to pass out.

The door opens and the healer bursts in, looking alarmed. “The Queen sent me-” she stops, taking in Scott sitting up in the bed, looking healthy as ever, and looks confused. “How is- you- why?” She looks between Scott and Stiles for several moments and suddenly gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. “The curse is broken,” she breathes, and a look of wonder passes through her eyes. “The curse is broken.”

Scott’s grinning, taking in the healer’s joy like it’s his own, and Stiles stands up as the healer approaches.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Scott asks, “You still didn’t answer my question.”

Stiles turns around distractedly. “I’ll be back in a bit. I just have to… do something.” He leaves the room without waiting for an answer.

-x-

He spends a few minutes searching for Lydia and someone directs him back to their shared rooms. He can see her on the balcony outside, arms leaned up against the railing,hair gently tossing in the wind with the tail of her dress. Her back is tense.

It gets even more tense when he opens the door and steps out onto the balcony with her. “Lydia?”

“I had the deaf maid check the weapons room. The witch is gone,” Lydia relays immediately without turning. She pauses. Then: “And Peter is dead. He was apparently found tossed on the floor, cut into pieces.” Her tone is flat.

“Well, at least that’s one bit of good news today,” he remarks. She doesn’t laugh, and he gets the sense she’s in a morose mood over something else. “Why are you out here, Lydia?”

She doesn’t turn around. “I felt it.”

He waits for her to elaborate. But she doesn’t; she falls silent.

“Felt what?” he prods softly, taking a step closer.

There’s a moment of silence and he’s not sure if she’s going to answer but then she does, still staring out into the vast mountains that made up their fantastic view. “When someone is going to die,” she says conversationally, “I feel it. In my bones. And I can’t help it, but I scream. I don’t know why.”

He stares at her. She keeps going, sounding slightly hysterical as she goes on.

“They say my grandmother was like that. But I never was. It started when Allison died and I just had the most horrible feeling in my chest and I screamed and I felt like I was screaming out her soul through my body. I don’t understand it. I hate it. And just now I felt that horrible feeling in my chest, and I sent the healer to Scott and ran outside… I didn’t want anyone to know,” she admits, and her knuckles are running white from where she clutches the railing, “that I _scream_ when people I care about _die_.”

He’s drifted closer as she spoke, and now he’s right behind her. When he replies she jumps a little. “Everyone screams when people they love die,” he says softly. He would know. “That’s normal.”

“Not the way I do it,” she replies firmly. “Not the way that I can’t help it. Not the way that I scream when I don’t even know why I’m screaming or who I’m screaming for.” She’s rambling a little by the end, and her shoulders are shaking. “I don’t want to scream anymore.”

He thinks about it for a second. Okay. Magical powers it is. “But you didn’t scream right now,” he points out.

“Because Scott is still alive, I guess,” she replies dully. “For how long, I don’t know.”

“I’d say for at least another eighty years, considering the current situation,” Stiles says.

She finally turns, and he sees her eyes are glazed with tears but her eyebrow is raised in response to his comment. He supposes, belatedly, that she was expecting him to deny that fact.

“Lydia,” he says, softly. He wonders how to break it to her, then impulsively scraps all ideas of being so tactful. “Scott’s okay.”

Her spine stiffens and her eyes drift to the ground as she mulls over those words. “What?”

“Scott’s okay,” he repeats, loving the feeling that swells in him upon saying those words. “He’s okay. The curse is broken.”

Those last four words hover between them, full of anticipation and joy and knowingness, and he sees the smile slowly spreading over her face- at least, until she finally looks back up and they lock gazes.

That smile begins to fade just as fast as it had appeared. “That’s… good,” she merely says, finally, after several seconds of utter silence. She got it, Stiles knows. She knows. She also knows that _he_ knows she knows. And yet, she doesn’t move.

His heart is thundering a million miles a minute, but her face isn’t giving anything away.

Swallowing, he takes a step back. If she doesn’t want to acknowledge this thing between them, whatever happened- he’s not going to force her to. Not right now.

“Do you want to see him?” he says instead.

“Yes,” she replies. There’s a beat of tension, a knowledge between the two of them that they both very awkwardly skated over a sticky moment.

He coughs into his fist, feeling uncomfortable. “Okay, let’s g-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because for the second time that day she’s capturing his lips with her own, without any warning at all.

Like before, he freezes up completely. It’s not for long, but it’s long enough that she starts to pull away, but finally he shocks himself out of it and snags her around the waist, pulling her back to him, and this time _he_ gets to kiss _her_.

She responds immediately, hands moving up to grab fistfuls of his collar and haul him impossibly closer, and all he can do is sigh into her mouth.

Eventually he pulls away- reluctantly- and she chases his mouth again. Despite himself, he places a finger on her lips to stop her.

“Not that I don’t want this to go on,” he says breathlessly, “but I think we should make this very clear. Is this what you wa-”

She’s equally breathless, eyes hungry and lips swollen when she cuts him off. “I want you,” she says simply. “I want you always.” Her voice is low, throaty. The fingers on his collar open from their fists and rake possessively, almost feverishly, down his chest. He watches her hands move with an open mouth, his skin seemingly having grown a million new nerves on his chest for this occasion. “And I have for a very long time. Clear enough?”

He takes a second to gulp for air. “Umm, I would most likely say _yeah_ ,” he finally articulates, fingers spasming where they lie on her hips. He thinks he’s almost got a handle on himself when she suddenly steps even closer, pressing her body flush against his and oh _hell_ he can feel everything and he’s pretty sure she can feel everything too…

To save face he kisses her again. This time, she sighs into his mouth. One of her hands curls up into his hair and the other trails down his back even farther.

He’s got his own agenda, meanwhile. “Been waiting for this,” he mutters against her mouth as she backs him off the balcony and into their rooms, and reaches a hand down to hike up her dress to her waist. She laughs at the action but it ends in a sigh when he trails his hand up her now bare leg. She’s clutching him round the shoulders like they’re floating together in the sea and she doesn’t know how to swim. They kiss sloppily, messy, and as they somehow get up to the bed Stiles trips, and they both fall sideways onto the mattress.

She harrumphs against his mouth. “Stop being so clumsy,” she says, but there’s a smile in her voice.

He pulls away from her and looks into her eyes. “It’s your fault,” he replies, and he can’t help the timber his voice goes to when he speaks, “ _you_ make me clumsy. Clumsier,” he corrects when she raises an eyebrow. “Okay, fine. I’m clumsy anyway, but you being in the room doesn’t really help, you know?” He bites her earlobe playfully as she laughs.

He loves her. He loves her way too much and his heart is singing at the sound of her laugh, the way it starts in something of a snort and then escalates into silent shakes of laughter as he kisses everywhere on her face, on her ears, down her neck and collarbone and when he gets to the barrier of her dress he simply leaves a soft kiss on her sternum over the cloth. Her hands snake into his hair again and he lets his lips press against that spot for a moment more before he turns his head and lays his ear down on that spot instead. Closes his eyes. This way he can hear her heartbeat- strong, slightly unsteady, and just a bit too fast. “I know this is obvious and everything,” he whispers, “but I love you, Lydia.”

Her heart rate spikes beneath his ear. When he grins at the sensation, she says, “that’s not fair.” Suddenly she’s sitting up on the pillows, pulling him up with her, and she’s looking into his eyes when she places her small hand deliberately over his heart. He feels her touch burn through his shirt.

“I always thought I was too late,” she confesses to the small space between their lips.

“Never,” he swears.

“Then... I love you,” she says quietly, and they both feel the way his heart trips over itself upon hearing those words.

There’s a light that shines in her eyes. He feels like he’s mirroring it right now. Who would have thought that he’d wake up today thinking it might be the worst day of his life and instead miraculously, it turned into one of the best?

“Can you say it again?” he asks finally.

She leans closer. “I love you.”

“ _God_ ,” he marvels. She giggles. “On a scale of one to ten how pissed would Scott be if we went to see him in an hour instead of right now?”

“An _hour_? That’s a bit of a lofty goal, don’t you think?” she replies a little breathlessly, already working on the buttons of his shirt.

He moves, rolling on top of her and hitching her leg onto his hip in the same motion. “True. I’ll regale you with my very best opera singing for the remaining fifty-five minutes.”

She laughs but it turns into a moan when his hand wanders, and he makes it his mission right then to get her to make that sound for the next fifty-five minutes at _least_.

-x-

“You should give yourself more credit,” Lydia comments afterwards when they’re both relaxed under the covers. “That was way longer than five minutes.”

“Right?”

“Well, I’m not interested in blowing up your ego any further,” she replies, rolling onto her side to look at him, “so barely.”

He rolls his eyes. “Lydia, cut me some slack, it’s not exactly like I had tons of practice getting people to scream my name in bed. I mean, if they did that everyone would be dead, so. That’s probably for the best.”

She laughs. “We’re just going to have to rectify that, aren’t we?”

“Guess so,” he says, and then, because he’s still got that slight insecurity in him, he has to ask: “Was it okay for you, though?” Because he knows he’s not the most… _experienced_ man out there but what he lacks in that area he tries to make up for with enthusiasm.

“Okay?” she repeats, sensing the seriousness of his question. “It was… _so_ good.”

He exhales in relief. “Okay. good.”

Then she leans forward and whispers, “better than it’s ever been,” and he’s filled with happiness at that, and seriously can’t fathom how he got this lucky, because he’s never this lucky, like seriously, and this is another question he has to ask.

“Why?” he whispers, and his words tremble. “After all that time we spent growing up… why?”

She swallows, looking oh so vulnerable, the green of her eyes warm like summer grass. She knows exactly what he’s asking. “You paid attention. You listened to me. You _remembered_.” Her voice breaks a little, as if she can’t believe he did. And her eyes flicker to the bedside table, where he follows her gaze. The theorem books he gave her as a wedding present still lie there on the table, still nestled in the wrapping paper as if she’d been afraid to touch them.

“‘Course I did,” he mutters, pushing a strand of hair back from her face. Leaning forward, he picks up one of the books. “You always liked numbers,” he says, flipping through it haphazardly. “Don’t know why you always tried to hide that.”

She watches him flip through it with an arm tucked under her head for a minute or two. “Do you know why I was always looking at these theorem books at the market when we were younger, Stiles?”

“I assume because you liked them,” he muses. He personally can’t make sense of some of the more complicated ones.

She shifts from her side onto her stomach like him so she can set her chin on his bare shoulder and peer at the pages as well. “I was defacing them,” she confesses.

“What?!”

“They were _wrong_!” she insists when Stiles gives her a scandalized look. “So many of the equations were wrong, Stiles, and it drove me up the wall. I had to fix them. So every time we went to the market I’d fix everything I could in the copies that we found there.”

“Those smudges on your fingers when we left were _pen_ ink, not print ink,” he laughs, finally making the connection. “You did this since we were kids, Lydia!” His voice is full of wonder but he can’t help it- she’s so _intelligent_.

She’s blushing slightly. “There’s no need to laugh,” she says stiffly. “Misinformation should not be spread.”

“You’re amazing,” he says with awe and fondness in equal parts. She flushes a little harder, adorably, almost matching the roots of her hair which look red under the lighting. He hands her the book. “Show me all the wrong stuff.” When she doesn’t move, he nudges her shoulder. “Come on. Show me. Or have you lost your talent?” he teases.

That gets her going- she kicks him in the shin under the covers. He swears because it actually hurts, and by the time he’s done moaning she’s got a pen in her fingers and she’s writing furiously on top of the printed ink with her quick handwriting. Now he’s watching over _her_ shoulder. She barely hesitates when she flips the page, just makes a tsking sound before scratching some symbols out, adding her own in the margins, and on another page she crosses out an entire equation, saying, “ _that_ one’s just plain wrong,” and he can’t quite deal with it anymore so he leans forward enthusiastically, knocking the pen out of her hands, and captures her lips with his.

She melts into it immediately. It’s long and sweet and unhurried and simple, and when they part she says, “let’s go see Scott.” He nods, and they rise simultaneously, searching for their clothes. As  he’s buttoning his shirt he squints at her. “I feel like all of this was a scheme to get me to marry you.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Her words have no passion behind them.

“Right,” he says, because now he’s not entirely convinced that wasn’t the case. “Well, you’re stuck with me either way.”

“Queen Lydia and King Idiot of the Martin Kingdom,” she says teasingly as she pulls her dress back on (and he silently mourns the loss of all that smooth skin), “it sounds good.”

He smiles at the ceiling. “You know what, it’s growing on me. Still better than my real name,” he adds.

She turns her head from the mirror, examining his expression with something of a critical eye. “I don’t care about your real name, Stiles,” she says. “Although, it’s nice.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t really care for it, either.

“But if that’s what you want to use from now on, that’s fine,” she continues. “You don’t have to be known as The Prince With No Name anymore.”

He blinks at the thought. It’s a foreign concept to him. That’s how he’s always been known. The idea that he can have his own identity in the eyes of the world rather than this non-identity isn’t something he had considered.

“I don’t want to use my name,” he says finally, pulling on his boots and walking towards the door. “It doesn’t even _feel_ like my name.” He looks into her hopeful green gaze, illuminated by the sun streaming onto them through the window, and he feels for once that tomorrow will be better. “How does ‘King Stiles’ sound?”

“Not as good as Queen Lydia,” she says, and joins him at the door. Their fingers immediately interlace, and it feels just as natural as breathing. “But.”

“But?”

“It’s a start.”

  


 

**-x-**

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, did you get all the way through til the end? Incredible.
> 
> As always, if you've been reading my other stuff you know that my ultimate KINK is comments. man it really gets me going. 
> 
> @arrowcave on tumblr! thank you SO much for reading!


End file.
